"See, madame--there, on the Hill of Pains, the long finger of the
Semaphore! One more prisoner has escaped--one more."
"One more, Marie. It is the life here that on the Hill, this here below;
and yet the sun is bright, the cockatoos are laughing in the palms, and
you hear my linnet singing."
"It turns so slowly. Now it points across the Winter Valley. Ah!"
"Yes, across the Winter Valley, where the deep woods are, and beyond to
the Pascal River."
"Towards my home. How dim the light is now! I can only see It--like a
long dark finger yonder."
"No, my dear, there is bright sunshine still; there is no cloud at all:
but It is like a finger; it is quivering now, as though it were not
sure."
"Thank God, if it be not sure! But the hill is cloudy, as I said."
"No, Marie. How droll you are! The hill is not cloudy; even at this
distance one can see something glisten beside the grove of pines."
"I know. It is the White Rock, where King Ovi died."
"Marie, turn your face to me. Your eyes are full of tears. Your heart
is tender. Your tears are for the prisoner who has escaped--the hunted
in the chase."
She shuddered a little and added, "Wherever he is, that long dark finger
on the Hill of Pains will find him out--the remorseless Semaphore."
"No, madame, I am selfish; I weep for myself. Tell me truly, as--as if
I were your own child--was there no cloud, no sudden darkness, out there,
as we looked towards the Hill of Pains."
"None, dear."
"Then--then--madame, I suppose it was my tears that blinded me for the
moment."
"No doubt it was your tears."
But each said in her heart that it was not tears; each said: "Let not
this thing come, O God!" Presently, with a caress, the elder woman left
the room; but the girl remained to watch that gloomy thing upon the Hill
of Pains.
As she stood there, with her fingers clasped upon a letter she had drawn
from her pocket, a voice from among the palms outside floated towards
her.
"He escaped last night; the Semaphore shows that they have got upon his
track. I suppose they'll try to converge upon him before he gets to
Pascal River. Once there he might have a chance of escape; but he'll
need a lot of luck, poor devil!"
Marie's fingers tightened on the letter.
Then another voice replied, and it brought a flush to the cheek of the
girl, a hint of trouble to her eyes. It said: "Is Miss Wyndham here
still?"
"Yes, still here. My wife will be distressed when she leaves us."
"She will not care to go, I should think. The Hotel du Gouverneur spoils
us for all other places in New Caledonia."
"You are too kind, monsieur; I fear that those who think as you are not
many. After all, I am little more here than a gaoler--merely a gaoler,
M. Tryon."
"Yet, the Commandant of a military station and the Governor of a Colony."
"The station is a penitentiary; the colony for liberes, ticket-of-leave
men, and outcast Paris; with a sprinkling of gentlemen and officers dying
of boredom. No, my friend, we French are not colonists. We emigrate,
we do not colonise. This is no colony. We do no good here."
"You forget the nickel mines."
"Quarries for the convicts and for political prisoners of the lowest
class."
"The plantations?"
"Ah, there I crave your pardon. You are a planter, but you are English.
M. Wyndham is a planter and an owner of mines, but he is English. The
man who has done best financially in New Caledonia is an Englishman.
You, and a few others like you, French and English, are the only colony
I have. I do not rule you; you help me to rule."
"We?"
"By being on the side of justice and public morality; by dining with me,
though all too seldom; by giving me a quiet hour now and then beneath
your vines and fig-trees; and so making this uniform less burdensome to
carry. No, no, monsieur, I know you are about to say something very
gracious: but no, you shall pay your compliments to the ladies."
As they journeyed to the morning-room Hugh Tryon said: "Does M. Laflamme
still come to paint Miss Wyndham?"
"Yes; but it ends to-morrow, and then no more of that. Prisoners are
prisoners, and though Laflamme is agreeable that makes it the more
difficult."
"Why should he be treated so well, as a first-class prisoner, and others
of the Commune be so degraded here--as Mayer, for instance?"
"It is but a question of degree. He was an artist and something of a
dramatist; he was not at the Place Vendome at a certain critical moment;
he was not at Montmartre at a particular terrible time; he was not a high
officer like Mayer; he was young, with the face of a patriot. Well, they
sent Mayer to the galleys at Toulon first; then, among the worst of the
prisoners here--he was too bold, too full of speech; he had not
Laflamme's gift of silence, of pathos. Mayer works coarsely, severely
here; Laflamme grows his vegetables, idles about Ducos, swings in his
hammock, and appears at inspections the picture of docility. One day he
sent to me the picture of my wife framed in gold--here it is. Is it not
charming? The size of a franc-piece and so perfect! You know the soft
hearts of women."
"You mean that Madame Solde--"
"She persuaded me to let him come here to paint my portrait. He has done
so, and now he paints Marie Wyndham. But--"
"But?--Yes?"
"But these things have their dangers."
"Have their dangers," Hugh Tryon musingly repeated, and then added under
his breath almost, "Escape or--"
"Or something else," the Governor rather sharply interrupted; and then,
as they were entering the room, gaily continued: "Ah, here we come,
mademoiselle, to pay--"
"To pay your surplus of compliments, monsieur le Gouverneur. I could not
help but hear something of what you said," responded Marie, and gave her
hand to Tryon.
"I leave you to mademoiselle's tender mercies, monsieur," said the
Governor. "Au revoir!"